The Shadow Project (12 page)

“W
hat's this, then?” Danny asked. “The Project Museum?”

It was the weirdest collection he'd ever seen: cabinets and displays of African masks and jujus, ceremonial swords, Egyptian ankhs, chalices, brass discs, wands, thuribles, and a load of other religious junk, alongside—and this was the
really
weird bit—a bank of scary machines like the things they hook you up to in the hospital, a control console that must have come from outer space, and one of the coolest sound systems he'd ever seen, with speakers that were actually bigger than he was. It made the operations room with its two electric chairs look like a train set.

Fran smiled. She could smile now that she wasn't playing Bad Cop, but she was still one tough lady. Danny wouldn't want to cross her. “Looks a bit like a
museum, doesn't it?” she said. “It's actually the heart of our Project.”

“Thought that was the operations room,” Danny said.

“That's just a feed. This is the generator. Whenever we want to send out an agent, we have one of our scientists in here crank up the psychotronic energies and pump out the infrasound. The control panel in the operations room directs what we produce in here.”

“Wow,” Danny said, looking at the electronic gear. Then his eyes slid across the other stuff. For some reason it made him feel uneasy. “What's all the stuff from Africa?”

“Yes, well, it
is
a strange mixture.” For a moment he thought she was going to leave it there—he'd discovered they weren't big on explanations here, Fran least of all—but then she said, “We gathered it together when we were investigating magic. I expect Sir Roland told you about that?”

Danny nodded. Somehow he'd thought Sir Roland just meant books.

“We have some really interesting items.” She moved to a cabinet and took out a peculiar dagger with a triangular blade and gargoyle-headed handle. “This, for example.” She waved it in the manner of somebody used to handling weapons.

“What is it?” Danny asked cautiously. “Wouldn't want anybody to stick that up your nose.”

“It's a Tibetan
phurba
,” Fran said. “A ritual dart used to drive off evil spirits.” She closed the cabinet firmly. “That's enough of the history lesson.” She pulled up a chair and sat down, nodding for Danny to do the same. “Now, I want you to tell me
exactly
what happened when you projected.”

Danny shrugged. “I came out of my body when you switched on the power, but I didn't
go
anywhere.”

“How did you know you were out of the body?”

“Could see it sitting there.”

“Have you any recall of
how
you came out?”

“How?”

“Through the top of your head, down your nose, out your ear—what?” Fran asked.

“Tried to swat an insect, and my arm came out of the restraints,” Danny said. “After that I was just out. Standing there beside the chair.”

“So you were aware of the insect creatures? Most of our other operatives have reported them. In the Project we call them threshold guardians: they often turn up when somebody's projecting—we don't fully understand their origins. What happened then?”

Danny shrugged. “You adjusted for weight and off I went.”

“But not to Lusakistan?”

“No way,” Danny said.

“What
exactly
happened?”

Danny shrugged again. “Went dark, felt like I was falling, got light, looked like mountains, then I was in the hospital with my gran.” Nobody had asked him for details of his experiences with his Nan, and he hadn't volunteered.

“Looked like mountains? You didn't mention that before.”

“Think I did,” Danny said.

“No, you didn't.” She frowned. “What were you thinking about before you went?”

Thinking about? His Nan, probably. He couldn't really remember, but he worried about her most of the time. “My Nan, I suppose.”

For some reason she looked pleased. “I think I know what happened. The equipment didn't fail at all. I think the problem was that we didn't use another agent as your anchor—we took out the second chair to avoid any feedback to Opal. I think we sent you to Lusakistan all right—that was your brief flash of mountains—but without the anchor, there was no stabilizing lock. You were thinking of your grandmother.
Gross movement follows thought
—we teach that to all trainees. If you want to go somewhere, you simply focus on moving to your
target—think about it, in other words. In your case that meant you went directly to your grandmother.”

“But I didn't know where she was,” Danny said. “I knew you'd moved her from Saint Luke the Physician's, but I didn't have the new address.”

“Didn't matter,” Fran said. “You locked in on the image of your grandmother. And managed to resist when we tried to pull you back. You're obviously a natural for this sort of work.” She rubbed her hands together. “Well, now that we've cleared that up, let's see how much better you can get with a bit of practice.”

“W
hoops,” the old woman said. “Wrong door—I must be getting senile.” She started to back out again. “Sorry, love.” She was wearing a flannel nightie and dressing gown, both of which looked as if they'd seen better days. Obviously another of the clinic's patients. A strange one.

Opal smiled. “That's all right.” On impulse she added, “I was feeling a bit lonely anyway.” Lonely and cross since Michael ran off like that. She was still burning with embarrassment.

The old woman reversed her direction at once. “Can't have that,” she said as she shuffled across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “Notice they don't give you chairs round here—that's to discourage visitors.”

“Do you think so?” Opal asked, wondering if it might be true. It was a secret intelligence service clinic, after all, but the chair business hadn't occurred to her.

“Might be,” the old woman said. She stuck out her hand. “My name's Dorothy.”

“Opal,” Opal told her. The old woman had an East London accent. What on earth was she doing in a clinic run by MI6?

“What you in for, Opal?” the old woman asked curiously. She managed to make it sound like a prison sentence.

Opal smiled at her again. “Just a few tests,” she said. “They're letting me out this evening.” She made a face and added, “With luck. How about you?”

“Me? Had a stroke, didn't I? Coming down some stairs. Lucky I didn't break my stupid neck. Right out of the blue, no warning. One minute I was right as rain, the next I was in a heap on the floor, not able to speak, not able to move. Would have been there yet hadn't been for my next-door neighbor.”

It occurred to Opal suddenly that Dorothy might be an undercover agent. She certainly didn't look like one or sound like one, but that was the whole point, wasn't it? She said, “You look much fitter now.”

“Thank you,” Dorothy said. “Take more than a stroke to send me off. Tough as old boots. Besides, I have things to do. Going home today, same as you. Only they've hid my clothes somewhere and I can't find them. I was looking for a nurse when I came blundering
in disturbing you.”

“I'm very pleased you did.”

“Me too,” Dorothy said. Then, inconsequentially, “You're a very pretty girl.”

“Thank you.” It was nice to have a compliment after Michael's rejection, even if it only came from an old woman. She decided she liked Dorothy, and even though she strongly suspected she shouldn't ask, she did: “How is it you're in the clinic, Dorothy?”

“Had a stroke, dear—I just told you.”

“No, I mean, how did you come to be in
this
clinic?” Opal smiled encouragingly.

“Search me, dearie. My boy arranged it all.”

“Your son?” Opal asked. Perhaps he was an MI6 operative.

“Grandson,” Dorothy said. “Just as well, too. I was out of it, let me tell you. Couldn't move, couldn't speak, no money to go private. It was National Health for me and no mistake. Fate worse than death. But you and me's the lucky ones, ain't we, Opal? We ended up in here. Nice place, innit? Know what I like most about it?”

“No,” Opal said, bemused.

“It's clean,” said Dorothy. “Everything's spotless. My room's spotless. Your room's spotless. The corridor outside is spotless. Won't find superbugs lurking in here, I can tell you.” She leaned forward to stare into Opal's face,
smiling slightly—then, without the slightest warning, her eyes glazed over and her mouth fell slackly open.

“Dorothy?” Opal said.

The old woman sat immobile as a statue on the bed.

“Dorothy?” Opal said again in sudden panic. She leaned forward, then began to scramble out of the bed. Dorothy was having another stroke.

Opal was reaching for the bell that would call a nurse when Dorothy said, “Beware the Devourer!” The voice froze Opal. It was deep and resonant, scarcely human, and so loud, it echoed through the inside of her skull. She spun around to look at Dorothy, whose eyes were bright again, whose mouth was no longer slack. There seemed to be some sort of halo around her head, but it was fading fast.

Dorothy pushed herself to her feet. “Best be off now,” she said in her normal voice. “Need to get dressed and make myself presentable. Did I tell you I was going home today?”

“Yes,” Opal said, openmouthed. “Yes, you did.” Her mind was racing. What had just happened? There was something about the voice that chilled her to the bone.

Opal watched nervelessly as Dorothy shuffled toward the door. “Won't be sorry,” Dorothy said, half to herself. “Nice enough place this, but there's no bed like your own bed, is there? No place like home.”

F
ran said, “I want to try an experiment.”

Danny said suspiciously, “What you want me to do?”

“You're a bit of a natural. So I thought it might be interesting to try a new technique I've been working on.”

“Sure,” Danny said. “What is it?”

“Part of the gear here is a standing wave generator—I integrated it into the system just yesterday. Our specialists think it could trigger a projection without the helmet. This will be the first time we've actually tried it out. If you're game?”

Danny thought he quite liked Fran. Now that she'd dropped the Bad Cop act, her bark seemed a lot worse than her bite. He didn't know what a standing wave was, but anything that could get you out of your body without the helmet had to be an improvement on their
electric chair. “Bring it on!” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

Fran looked pleased. “All I really want you to do is stand here,” she said, pointing. “On the chalk mark. That's where the standing wave will generate.”

“Won't I fall down?”

Fran blinked. “You're right, you might—hadn't thought of that.” She grabbed an upright chair and pushed it in his direction. “Sit on that, on the mark. You should be all right.” She paused, then added, “Or would you like me to tie you in?”

Danny grinned at her. “Some other time, eh? I think I'll be fine.” He pushed the chair onto the chalk mark and sat down. “Where are you going to send me?”

“Nowhere,” Fran said. “The coordinates are set to this room, so you should simply come out of your body and stay”—she waved one hand vaguely—“around here somewhere.” She frowned suddenly and added severely, “I don't want you flying off to see your grandmother again.”

“Promise,” Danny said. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Fran said. “You'll hear quite a loud sound when I switch on, like a swelling organ note. But it will keep dropping in pitch until you think it's stopped. Except it
won't have stopped, just dropped below the threshold of your hearing. There's a possibility that you may be able to feel it as a vibration for a little while: some people are sensitive enough to pick that up. But once you stop hearing it, you can expect the standing wave to propagate within about five seconds.”

“I'll wave to you as I come out of my body,” Danny grinned.

“That would be nice.” Fran smirked. “Are you all set?”

“Hit the juice!” Danny told her.

The organ note began at once and lasted longer than he expected, but dropped quickly in pitch until it was a low animal growl, then stopped altogether. Danny began to count mentally
one hundred and one, one hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and—

Something hideous hurled itself from a cabinet. It struck Danny with such force that he was flung from his chair to hurtle across the room and smash a glass-topped display. He landed bruised and dazed amid the wreckage on the floor. He had a fleeting impression of claws and fangs as the creature attacked Fran with such ferocity that it opened her arm from shoulder to wrist with a single slash. Blood spurted in a spray that fanned across the gleaming surface of the control panel. There was a scream as Fran went down, then the thing was on top of
her, squatting on her chest.

Danny scrabbled wildly until his hand gripped something sound enough to support him as he climbed shakily to his feet. The thing on Fran's chest glanced around to look at him with fiery eyes. “Hey!” Danny roared. He moved unsteadily toward it.

The creature made a sound that, horribly, could only have been a laugh. There was blood all around its mouth. It climbed slowly off Fran and began to lope toward him, crouched, eyes gleaming, growling softly.

Danny's heart was racing and he wanted desperately to run, but he'd been in enough street fights to know that was the worst thing you could do. The creature was smaller than he was, about the size of an Alsatian dog, so maybe if he got his hands on it he could wring its neck. He was terrified after what he'd seen it do, almost paralyzed by fear, but he forced himself to move toward it. The thing stopped, watching him. Danny feinted to one side, then dashed forward, arms outstretched. He was feet away when the creature struck and ripped open his leg. He staggered, hit a table, and nearly fell again.

The thing rounded to attack him again, and he knew he was a goner. His leg felt on fire, and he couldn't use it anymore, couldn't run, couldn't get away, and he was starting to think if he stood still he'd likely bleed to death. After which it hit him again, ripping a wound
across his throat. The creature crouched, leaped, and it was definitely laughing.

Acting of its own accord, Danny's hand reached out to grip the Tibetan
phurba
on the tabletop beside him. As the thing jumped at him again, he thrust out blindly.

There was an explosion of black light.